


Brother, Do You Still Believe in One Another?

by jojothecr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10.03, Episode Related, M/M, soul survivor, written in 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from Avicii</p></blockquote>





	Brother, Do You Still Believe in One Another?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Brother, Do You Still Believe in One Another?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521318) by [archeoptah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeoptah/pseuds/archeoptah)



Sam wakes up to the sound of retching; heavy, dry noises that filter through the half-closed door of Dean’s bathroom, painful, and so weak. 

He walks in to find Dean kneeling on the tiled floor, bare feet and just a thin henley, completely soaked through with sweat, a too bright light bulb above his head. He’s shaking, teeth rattling when he leans forward, throwing up again the nothing that’s left in his stomach after hours of this, just water and saliva, a violent shudder wrecking his spine. 

Hamburger and fries weren’t the best choice; Sam didn’t know that demons don’t eat, that demon Dean wouldn’t eat with the same appetite as Dean himself, but maybe it’s more, maybe it’s some poison the demon’s left behind, a residue of evil. Dean needs food, but he can’t keep it in, not right now, nothing. Everything goes up in the matter of a few minutes, biscuits, too, even something as simple and innocent as water. Sam thought, _hoped_ that it was over, and he was wrong.

With a hoarse sigh, Dean sits down onto his hunches and wipes his mouth with the hem of his shirt. When he notices Sam, he quickly looks away. Guilt and regrets, and an endless ribbon of apologies hanging on his lips, unspoken yet. Everything too recent, too raw to form any.

Sam hands him a glass of chilled coke, wraps his fingers around Dean’s own, trembling and deathly cold, holds onto the drink until Dean swallows a few thirsty, tiny sips. A few drops of the colored water escape, trip over his bottom lip and remain clinging to his chin, transparent, stubborn. Sam rubs them away with his thumb, then lets his touch linger for the briefest moment. Dean’s skin is warm, too warm, really, bordering at hot, and damp, with perspiration, with tears. His eyes are dark, but no longer black, not empty, just tired. He draws away from that touch, tries to stand up, weak, unsteady, pushes Sam’s hands off himself when the tries to help, and reaches for the wall instead, pulling himself up.

 

When Dean’s brushing his teeth, Sam holds him up, just a hand on Dean’s left elbow, and a solid chest to lean on behind. Dean doesn’t like it, but he’s not fighting him anymore. He dries his mouth with a towel and looks up, starring into the mirror in front of him. Sam catches his gaze, wonder and confusion, terror and culpability. Dean looks old, older even, like an instant version of himself, dry ingredients and not enough water, not enough patience and care.

“How you feeling?” Sam traces his fingers over the inner side of Dean’s arm, smooth, pale. Over the Mark, the shape of a jaw bone, and the animal within. The tip of his index finger rises and falls with its contour and Dean’s skin. It’s swelled, still, looks so fresh, so sore, like a new tattoo, pulsing pain and abraded flesh. This chapter of Dean’s story is not closed, yet. It’s far from over. There’s a hole in Dean’s arm, a few of them, actually, some shallow, others scarily deep. And a large bruise forming around them all, achingly blue and purple. Too many shots. And Sam was too angry, too frightened and emotion-driven to be gentle, to actually care about some possible later laceration. It’ll all hurt a lot more in the morning. “I mean, besides the obvious?”

“Tired,” Dean says, whispers, his voice dull and rough, exhausted, throat scraped raw. “Just… tired.” And tons of other things he won’t admit. 

Sam tugs him from the sink, careful, but insistent. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

Dean turns around, slipping Sam’s hold. He leans against the washbasin, sinks against it, like standing upright is too exhausting, and puts his hand on Sam’s chest, fingers spread right over his heart. The touch is cold, but light, barely there. But Sam jerks anyway, instinct and too quick reflexes kicking in, faster than reality, faster than trust. He sees the confusion in Dean’s eyes, the hurt, for a split of second, before he realizes, understands, and pulls his hand back. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, and he doesn’t mean now. “Physically?”

“No. I’m alright.”

“You sure?”

“I’m good, Dean.” Smiling seems impossible, but Sam tries. “Just beat. Don’t worry.”

 

The chair might be a heritage, historical and a valuable piece of wood, but it’s incredibly uncomfortable. Sam doesn’t understand how he even managed to fall asleep in it, but he must have. Because when Dean’s voice, choked and so small, comes from the other side of the room, it drags him from a nightmare. And it’s not as much a dream as it is a memory. A flashback to recent events, to darkness, and blood. 

„Sam?“ Dean’s not asleep, doesn’t look like he was. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed in the weak flare of his bedside lamp, head bowed and elbows settled on his knees. He’s so scarily placid and harmless, suddenly, not fighting, for the first time in what must be weeks.

Whole body aching with every step, Sam crosses the distance between them and kneels on the floor before Dean, touching his cheek to feel for fever. He’s still sweating, and too warm, but his temperature doesn’t seem to be higher than before. There’s a constant tremor in his hands, his lips, the tight set of his jaw; Sam wonders if it’s just ordinary cold caused by the nausea storming through his body, or something worse, something darker. “What is it? You sick again?”

“No.” Dean lifts his eyes to Sam’s, and puts his hand over Sam’s resting lightly on his cheek, chilly fingers settling over Sam’s own. He tilts his head to the side, just the slightest fraction of a movement, eyes narrowed, like he’s craving the touch, the simplest contact. “Sammy, I’m sorry.”

Sam struggles not to cringe at that nickname, so familiar and innocent. Until now. And it should be easy, because demon Dean used it to mock him, make fun of him, play on all the feelings – love, irritation, annoyance, friendship – the single word represents, but this Dean says it the way he always did. With tenderness and care, playful nudging. 

Sam runs his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, the tiniest hint of a caress, and when Dean straightens his back, he let’s go and pulls away.

“It wasn’t you.”

“I tried to kill you. I _wanted_ to kill you.”

“Not you. _Him_.”

“But _him_ is still me. Maybe a darker, twisted, sans moral compass version of me. But _me_ nevertheless.”

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you... Because I need to believe that my own brother doesn’t hate me enough to want to kill me.” 

A monster, a disease, Sam can take it, lies and lies, hear them, and let go. Not forget, but forgive. Not doubts that… _maybe_. That maybe the demon who took over his brother’s soul was just more honest than Dean himself could ever be, fed by bad memories, so alive, and sharp, so real without the barrier of emotions and social restraints. By years and years of watching over him, over them both, by dreams he’d given up for a world-wide battlefield, for blood; dad’s, Sam’s, his own. For a path full of darkness and moving shadows, a tunnel with the view of a hellfire. 

“Sam… You know I don’t.”

Sam nods, slowly, but convinced. “I do.”

 

“Go sleep, Sammy. You don’t need to babysit me.”

“I know I don’t. But I wanna stay here.”

Dean glances over at the abandoned chair in the corner, back at Sam. “Over there?” His voice changes, just barely, still rough, but touching more tender levels, a different kind of them.

“Closer… if you let me.”

Sam doesn’t understand how the demon could miss that. This. _Them_. Such a piquant bite, delicious in its wrongness, a temptation they both failed to resist. Years ago. It was the only thing that could truly break him, make him question every touch, every kiss. Wonder where the demon’s amusement ended, and Dean’s own disgust began. If demon Dean wanted more than Sam’s Dean would ever dare to voice, to even think of. He was always fighting it, resenting it, but he couldn’t make it stop, not for good. Sam was scared that the demon wouldn’t have any of Dean’s scruples and rules, that his lie would be the truth he’d learn to believe.

The curving of Dean’s lips, just a minute upturn, looks almost like a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Avicii


End file.
